


Manifestos and Hugs

by HeroMaggie



Series: Anders Needs Hugs [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders needs Hugs, Friendship, Hugs, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroMaggie/pseuds/HeroMaggie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snooping Hawke comes across a copy of Anders' Manifesto and some thoughts he would prefer nobody ever know about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manifestos and Hugs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delazeur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delazeur/gifts).



> For Delazeur and our ongoing discussion that Anders Needs Hugs.
> 
> This might turn into a collection of one-shot stories about Anders getting hugs. 
> 
> The poor guy.

Hawke’s fist pounded on the door, shaking the flimsy wood and causing splatters of dried paint and Maker knew what else to rain down around her. She sneezed into the cloud of ick and pounded on the door again, tapping an anxious beat with her foot. Narrowing her eyes at the unresponsive door, Hawke gave a look that  clearly placed all blame on the door itself and not on the unresponsive inhabitant of the hovel of a clinic.

“Anders! Get off your raggedy ass and open the door before I burn off the locks!” Hawke followed up with a swift kick and a bouncing jig, gripping at her now-sore foot. The door remained closed, unresponsive. It did have a nice shoe-shaped scrape along the bottom, however. Hawke huffed in annoyance. “Fine,” she yelled through the door, “Have it your way!”

With a mutter, she pulled her staff off her back, took a couple steps back, and sighted down the lock. A little concentration, a little waving of fingers, and a fine frost settled over the lock. With a nod and a brief mental back pat, she released a wave of force that punched up against the door and shattered the now-frozen lock. The poor door hung still for a moment and then simply creaked and fell off its rusted hinges. Hawke covered her mouth with her hand, then face-palmed. Oh well, she thought, I’ll just…talk Varric into sending down a carpenter or maybe send down Bodahn with Varric’s carpenter. Another mental back pat at that brilliant thought and she sauntered into the now-open clinic.

The now-open and empty clinic. A swift glance around showed her nothing but sad cots, wobbly tables, and boxes of vials. It also showed no patients, which was odd even for the locked clinic. Hawke pulled up short at the empty space, clearly at a loss. Her brain offered up, in a helpful manner, that this was why the door hadn’t been answered. And perhaps, her brain continued on in that oh-so-helpful tone, she should see about picking up said door before her friend returned.

Hawke eyed the door with misgivings, moving to prop it up against the opening. She shrugged, moving back into the clinic proper. Now what, she wondered. She had come down here to find Anders on a whim. Maker knew that man was always down here draped over a table asleep or healing some poor vagrant or her personal favorite, writing illegibly about mage’s rights. She wasn’t sure why, but reading Anders’ manifesto was always a cross between earnest preaching and comedy. If he wrote too late into the night, it became an existential nightmare that made eyes water and brains scream. It was her favorite past time to read said manifesto and then offer up what she thought he had meant, all the while watching him grip his hair and try not to strangle her. She was about seventy-five percent sure he wouldn’t strangle her, maybe eighty. When he wasn’t griping his hair, he was giving her mooning looks so perhaps strangling isn’t what would happen.

Hawke slammed the door closed on those thoughts and drifted through the clinic to the back wall and his favorite writing nook. No, not thinking about that today, brain, she nagged. A glance around confirmed that she was still alone and with his desk full of unguarded papers. Her lips curved into a smile and she settled into his chair, figuring she would avail herself of his latest works before he could pull them from her grasp. Delighted with the idea, she rummaged around till she found what looked to be his latest scrawlings, settled back in her stolen chair, and started reading.

***

Anders was exhausted. He had been pulled away from his clinic earlier by a very pregnant mother, a very pregnant first-time mother who was elven and didn’t trust humans. He wouldn’t have gone but the girl’s mother had been frantic and in tears. And Maker help him, he could not resist a crying, begging woman fearing for her daughter. So he had gone and put up with the mistrust and the snide comments and the angry looks and delivered one healthy baby girl. His greatest desire at that moment, beyond a quiet room, was to sit down and put his head on his desk. Justice was clamoring for him to work, but he really just wanted five minutes of uninterrupted peace, quiet, and head resting. Just five minutes.

He saw all of his desires wave good-bye and jump off the Wounded Coast cliffs when he climbed up the last flight of stairs and saw the door to his clinic. Andraste’s flaming knickers, could the gangs around here not break into his clinic every fortnight and ransack it for potions? He was grumbling, loudly, about this being the fourth time he’d had to re-hang that particular door when he barreled into his clinic and saw Hawke. She was in his chair, a wad of papers in her hands, and her lips moving silently as she read the page. She hadn’t heard him yet, obviously, so he had a moment to put two and four together and come up with Hawke broke his door.

He cleared his throat, trying for nonchalant instead of cranky, “Hawke, what brings you to Darktown today? Everything alright?”

Her head snapped up and whipped to face him so fast he winced and pitied her neck muscles. Her eyes widened in surprise, feet slamming to the floor, chair falling in a clatter, as she rocketed up from the chair. “Anders!” her voice cracked, “Ah…hi. Hi. Fancy meeting you…here….in your own clinic. Right. And…did I say hi? Because…hey, you look nice…today. Yes.” Her eyes crossed and she glanced at the papers in her hand and back to him, her lips pinching together to hold in the sudden rain of babble.

He sighed, rubbed at his eyes, and raised his eyebrow at her. Maker knew this was the one person in the entire city of Kirkwall, maybe the entirety of Thedas, who could simultaneously make him want to strangle and kiss her. He watched her for a moment trying to decide which urge would win out today and hoping it was the strangle option because he figured he could stop that urge pretty easily. The kissing one? Not so much. Justice reared his head at that last statement and the two of them engaged in a fast, vicious argument that ended with him glowering at Hawke and his entire head throbbing. “Can I help you with something, Hawke? Or did you just come down here to break my entire clinic and ransack my desk for paper?”

Hawke glanced down at the papers in her hand and then back to Anders’ face. For a moment, she stood there with a blank expression on her face. Then she dropped the papers, scattering them across the desk. “I, ah, I was bored. Thought I’d come down and see if you needed help. I’m sorry about your door. It was…evil…and needed to be killed. I’ll have Bodahn get a carpenter to come down and, ah, fix that. Problem. With the door.” Her eyes widened in a silent plea at him to please step in and make her shut up.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting like Merrill, more than usual that is.” He moved toward the table to tidy up the papers and she stepped in front of him, bodily keeping him from the mess she had made. He frowned down at her. “What ever are you doing?”

Hawke didn’t think, she just threw herself at Anders, wrapping her arms around the man’s waist and squeezed him into a hug. Her brain noted his skinny but sturdy frame and that his coat needed a good brushing. When his arms flailed a bit, she tightened her grip and pressed her face into his shoulder. His feathers made her sneeze. Bodily assaulting her good friend hadn’t been on the agenda for the day, but Hawke had never been one to go by calendars or agendas. She clung to Anders with every ounce of strength in her willowy frame, practically manhandling him into an affectionate, cuddly hug.

Anders held his hands out on either side of Hawke and tried to decide how best to diffuse this incredibly awkward, and snuggly, situation. Fighting back had just encouraged her to latch on harder, bringing her body completely against his in a way that made sweat blossom on his brow. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, gently draped has arms around Hawke’s shoulders, and recited the Transfigurations in his head in the great everlasting hope that she didn’t move, and if she did he could hide just what her proximity was doing to him.

The hug lasted just long enough for Anders to relax into it. As soon as Hawke felt him relax, she was pulling away. She shifted on her feet, her face mottled with blush. He simply shook his head, attributing this entire visit to just Hawke and how she was. She bounced on her toes once, eyes still on him, then nodded. “Alright. Well. Ah, nice visit. Yes. I’ll send down Bodahn.” She gave him a wave, moving to the ruined door. Before she slipped out into Darktown she stopped. “Anders,” her voice reached out to him gently, “You aren’t alone.” She smiled at his stunned look, sliding around the broken door and disappearing into the gloom beyond.

He turned to his table, a sigh escaping his lips as he noted the mess of papers. Sitting down, he reached for the stack to reorganize, stopping to read the first page. His mouth dropped open and his heart plunged into his navel. It was apparently part of his manifesto and written late at night if the scrawled handwriting was any indication. It started out speaking about the plight of the mages, badly written phrases competing with scratches and illegible scribbles. Halfway down the page, in between a paragraph detailing, poorly, how the Chantry misused the Chant and a paragraph raging about lyrium smugglers and templars, he found a few sad sentences penned. They were in a different hand than the rest of the manifesto, obviously written at a moment when Justice has relinquished his tight hold. Just a few sentences, thoughts he had never meant for another person to see.

_I can’t do this anymore. The clinic is so quiet…so…alone. I’m so alone. Even with Justice. Will I ever make a difference? Will anybody ever care? I wish to the Maker I could end it now, but Justice won’t let me. Not till we are done, he says. Maybe not even then…_


End file.
